


The Smoldering Philatelist

by lockawinest



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Autistic Data, Detective AU, Human Data (Star Trek), M/M, Time out of Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 10:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockawinest/pseuds/lockawinest
Summary: Data Soong is a self-described researcher and a detective for hire who has been incapable of keeping an assistant. Geordi LaForge is the latest in a line of typist assistants an agency has sent Data. Meanwhile, a young man has gone missing from the docks, a concerned mother has hired Data, and the police are somewhat convinced that this has something to do with a high ranking face in the mob.A time out of time detective tale involving our duo.





	The Smoldering Philatelist

The light bulb above his head was flickering, throwing off shadows that pulsed unsteadily around him. He pressed at his temples as the unkind beginnings of a headache threatened to turn into a full blown migraine. The pill he had taken earlier to slate the fierce pounding in his head was not doing a thing. Papers on his desk, covered in complicated phrases and diagrams, were beginning to blur. His hand, ill-used to writing was starting to cramp. He fought with the concession that he thought too quickly to put down his thoughts on paper, and that he was truly to wait until the replacement typist from the agency came by.

After the last typist left, upset with tears welling up in her eyes, her fist tightly clenched on her bag, and with body language that read more of anger than of grief, Data had been subjected to a long conversation with the supervisor at the agency. He had been warned in sharp words that while they would send him a new typist, he would have to be patient for them to find someone up to his absurd standards. He stated that he accepted that fact. He decided that arguing that his standards were anything but absurd was a moot point. He thanked her for her diligence and concluded the call.

His last typists had all come in through the front door of his office smiling and ready, and had rushed out the door with fallen faces, and tight grips on their cases. The later ones came in with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes, and with shaking hands, and ran out the door even faster. He had managed to complete maybe two studies amongst the lot of them. All in all his attempts to step outside of research had hindered his publishing and the typists were hindering it further. When his last typist had fled he sat at his desk, examining the wood grain lines of his office door and thought. Dictation with the typists he had been sent was nightmarish. He attempted to be patient, obviously they would fail initially, and he had no expectation that the agency would send anyone who was trained for him. But they had been absolutely unable to adapt. He would have called the agency and requested that they send no one, if it wasn’t for the fact that he needed someone to assist him if he was to work at any sort of an acceptable rate.

Now he found himself frustrated, staring at the phone, watching the light change rapidly on its reflective surface. He put down the pen he had been holding, and then picked it up again to place it in its pen holder. Nothing was getting done until he solved the light bulb problem.

He switched the light off, assuring himself that it was not a faulty switch. Then he stood on his desk waiting for the bulb to cool enough that he could see to tightening it. There was no tightening it. As he retrieved it, balancing himself with a hand held to the ceiling and beginning shaking the bulb to hear if the filament was loose, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in.” He called out. The bulb was fine, but he would have to retrieve his tools to check if the fixture had loose wiring.

The door opened, and he heard someone step inside and close it behind them. A young man’s voice said, ‘Afternoon, Mr. Soong.” The man sounded friendly, but his voice was tinged with the same apprehension that tinged the previous typists.

“Data.” corrected Data, stepping down from his desk. He moved to the stairs that led to his second floor apartment and started climbing, even as the young man was attempting to get his bearings in the office. He heard a case dropped by the typist’s table, and hurried footsteps following him up the staircase.

“Data.” The young man responded, in a tone of acceptance that Data had not heard from the previous typists. Good. He was becoming tired of the assistants he was sent questioning the correction. “Geordi LaForge, I can assume you know why I’m here.” Data heard him lightly laugh to himself, “But if not, the agency sent me.”

Data’s apartments, much like his office were sparse, but he had a side table in the main room, and having found the drawer he was looking for he pulled out a leather bound set of tools. He did not respond.

“Shouldn’t you be asking the landlady to be fixing that light?” asked Geordi, presumable attempting to fill the silence.

“If I reported it to the landlady, I would continue to have a flickering light bulb for at least another two weeks. It is less straining if I correct the malfunction myself.”

“Actually, I would appreciate that then, Sir. I think that would probably make my head explode.”

Data stopped for a moment, attempting to untangle the implausibility of that statement. Other assistants had attempted humor. He had friends that were humorous, but conversations, with Riker for example, always ended with someone pointing out that he didn’t understand it. This statement sounded like a joke, but the tone in which Geordi had said it seemed far too passive to be humor, or dry sarcasm. He turned past Geordi, without actively looking at him again, instead choosing the applicable tool from his set, and began to walk back down the stairs. “While I may have a headache due to the flickering of the lightbulb, I can assure you that your head cannot explode from a defective light fixture malfunctioning.”

“I would like to say that that was a joke, but it’s entirely possible.”

Data was now again atop the table unscrewing the light fixture to take a look at the connecting cables. He froze and finally turned to look at the young man who had been talking to him. “It is absolutely impossible...”

Geordi was smiling, eyebrow raised, standing with his hands on his hips watching him. Even with his headache still ailing him, with the worries that he would not be able to keep yet another assistant that could not keep up, and his attempts to continue storing information that he needed to eventually put to paper, Data could not help but notice that Geordi’s smile was unimaginably warm. And then he glanced higher up on his face and saw his eyes. He was blind. At his temples were small flashing diodes connected to cables that tucked behind his ears like glasses. “I see.” Data said, “I will finish repairing the light fixture.”

***

As Data continued correcting the loose wire in the fixture, leaning down to grab the appropriate tools as necessary, they stood in a patient silence, and dim light provided by a half-curtained window behind Data’s desk. Geordi took his time to make a study of the room he was now in. It felt empty, the most personal touch - the books on the bookshelves across from the dictation desk where his case sat like an outlier. Data was standing on what was more than likely his own desk, the desk protector pushed to the side to make space for him to place his shoes on the bare wood. Aside from that a few leafs of paper, carefully kept together and messily marked on, were sitting carefully on the side of the desk, and a cup held three identical pens. Geordi couldn’t help but think that his new employer would have a very specific reason for those three pens.

“Is there anything that you will need to assist me with my papers?” Data finally asked, breaking the quiet. He didn’t seem to look at him when he spoke to him, noted Geordi. Perhaps a sort of discomfort. The loose cables in the light fixture had been clamped back down and refitted, Data was now tightening the screws that kept it up. Geordi hoped that the question wasn’t an assumption that he was incapable of the work ahead of them.

“Sir?”

“You are the seventh typist from the agency. If there is anything within reason I can provide to avoid needing an eighth, I will. Having spent two weeks unable to place thoughts on paper in an adequate manner has been... taxing.”

“Other than the typewriter you have at my station, I don’t see what else I’d need.”

“Are you quite certain?” asked Data, a hint of apprehension tinting his careful speech.

“You’ve heard this before I’m assuming?”

“Yes.”

Geordi laughed, a small laugh, that made Data stop replacing his tools in their book and look at him. “Have I said something humorous?” His face was a perfect display of sincerity.

“I was just thinking...” Geordi stopped mid-sentence. “You have a reputation you know.”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, perhaps the other’s never watched you fix a light bulb before.”

“I fail to see how that...”

Geordi waved that off, and sighed, “Don’t worry. There’s not much you can do as to whether of not you’ll need an eighth typist. We either work well together, or we don’t.”

“If you are not determined to put effort into your assignment, I believe we have already reached an impasse.”

Nothing that his coworkers had told him prepared Geordi for Data’s reaction. They had stated that he was forward, and could be insensitive. The strange disconnect between the words and the way he said them was mentioned. His face, they had told him about the emotionless expression that lived on his face, but for Geordi, he also saw something of injury underneath. In a statement that should have carried some form of frustration, or irritation there was just an unsettling quietude. It didn’t even sound like Data was accusing him of unprofessionalism. He should be. At least if he had indeed taken Geordi’s statement the way that Geordi assumed he had mistakenly done.

Data was watching him. Waiting quietly. The air around them was no longer that calm patient quiet, it sang with a discomfort that Geordi swore didn’t even seem to reach Data. Data, who just stood there, waiting. If they had truly reached an impasse then it fell on Geordi to attempt to break it, the silence told him. He found himself folding in, making himself smaller, his left hand floating over to his right arm, seeking comfort, pressing into himself, as time slowed and his thoughts sluggishly brought themselves together.

“I...” He began with an awkward half stifled laugh, immediately furrowing his brow and upset with himself upon hearing it.

“I apologize, I believe I have upset you,” said Data, interrupting him.

After another moment for the silence to reintroduce itself, Geordi found his voice. “Wh..What?”

“I apologize.” Said Data, still watching him with his blank expression, although Geordi felt that there was another underneath that he couldn’t read yet. “ I believe I am starting to understand what you meant by saying that I have a reputation.”

“I must have missed a step in this conversation.”

“I apologized.” repeated Data, “ I must assumed I have misstepped in a manner similar to that which upset my previous assistants.”

“I understand that, but I originally misstepped myself, when I made you assumed that I wasn’t prepared for this position. So why are you apologizing?”

“I assumed incorrectly did I not?”

“Yes?”

“Then I apologize. Please excuse me for a moment. I need to return these tools.”

Data stepped back up the stairs, leaving Geordi to have a moment in the empty office. Data had not replaced the mat on his desk, which Geordi now carefully did. Then from his case he took out a notepad, and a small tin cup, which he filled with pencils he dug out from the bottom the case. From a pocket he pulled a little booklet, a folded up piece of large paper, coated in notes, which he placed underneath his notepad. He tucked his case by the coat rack, which held a well worn trenchcoat and a hat, and took a moment to admire his small and cluttered desk.

The top two shelves of the bookshelves across from his desk were lined with dozens of self bound manuscripts. He recognized a few that he had read. He’d been handed one or two by the agency to read. They wouldn’t have told Data, but Geordi had been provided fair warning of his new assignment. Before they had even told him, Geordi knew. He’d watched many of the other typists attempt and fail to appease the legendary Mr. Soong. He would have been up to bat at some point no matter what. He’d taken a look at the work that the others had brought back with them. Candice, Gerald, and even Marisol, who had been utterly devastated once her exceptionally cheery optimism was dashed, had all lent him copies of the dictation nightmares that they had attempted to translate. He pulled a manuscript out from the shelves, and flipped though its pages. Diagrams littered the pages, as did a constant mess of easily correctable errors.

“You’ve read that one,” said Data from the stairs.

“Yes?”

“You are flipping to pages you remember, trying to find specific passages. It looks quite different from someone who has never encountered the paper.”

“I _have_ read it. I take it you’re feeling better?”

“Why would you say that?”

“You’re noticing things. You _are_ supposed to be a deductionist, aren’t you?”

Data didn’t respond. He instead stopped at his desk, attempting to correct the pad that Geordi had moved back and finding that it didn’t need to much shifting. As he thumbed through the manuscript he was holding, waiting for Data to indicate a change in activity, Geordi couldn’t help but notice that Data had taken a quick glance at his desk, his eyes widening only just so. Perhaps it was something only he would have been able to see, he though smiling to himself.

“Are you averse to starting today, Mr. LaForge?”

“Now that isn’t fair. If I’m calling you Data, you’re calling me Geordi.” He said, tucking the manuscript back between it’s neighbors.

“Very well, but you have not answered my initial question. I find that I am anxious to start working on the Hess case.”

“The art theft? You found it, didn’t you? And then proved that the stolen work was a forgery of the original that the collection owner had hidden in their attic.”

“Yes, I did. You, however, have still not answered my initial question.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m absolutely fine with starting today. I expected as much actually.”

“Very well, please, let me know when you are prepared to take dictation.”

Geordi moved to sit at his desk, pulling a pencil out of his tin cup, and holding his notepad, the booklet covered in notes still sitting on the desk. Data gave him a peculiar look, and opened his mouth as if to ask something, but before he could there was a knock on the door. Data moved past Geordi’s desk and opened it.

“Mr. Soong?” came a lightly accented voice from the other side of the door, that Geordi could not see through.

“I am.” responded Data to the woman on the other side. “Please come inside.”

A woman, carrying herself carefully, with a straight back, and crisp clean clothes, came inside. Her put together facade was broken by one hand agitatedly caressing the purse she was carrying, and her red eyes, tired from crying. Data showed her to the chair in front of his desk, where she sat down, carefully so as not to sink in, perching on the edge. Without speaking, Data came and lightly touched Geordi’s shoulder, indicating that he could stand behind the desk. And then the final figure in the tableau, Data sat in his own chair, with his hands together, fingers intertwined.

“How can we be of help, Ms...” began Data.

“Draganov,” she supplied. “My boy, Thomas is missing.”

“How long has Thomas been missing, Ms. Draganov?”

“A few days now. I was expecting him for dinner on Sunday, and he never showed, or called.”

“I am assuming you have attempted to contact him?”

“Yes sir, I did call the number that he’d given me, and checked by his work but they haven’t seen him.”

“You haven’t called the police because of what he was involved with.” It was a statement that made Ms. Draganov more agitated than she had been before. Her hand, which had been nervously dancing around her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, which she picked at with both hands.

“He told me, we were the only two in the family who made it here. We were the only ones here. But he didn’t say there was anything else. Didn’t say that he was in danger.”

“You said you spoke to a coworker of his, where does Thomas work Ms. Draganov?”

“I spoke to friend of his down at the docks. Thomas worked taking shipments off of ships.”

“Do you know what he was involved in?”

“He only told me he was, now what. Do you think something happened to him, that they took him?”

“Ms. Draganov, how do you know that he did not leave town for his own safety? Or for yours?”

At that question she became agitated, began cry, and covered her face in the handkerchief. Her voice, cracking and watery, responded.

“I just know something happened. He wouldn’t not tell me. He wouldn’t leave me alone, by myself. Not my Thomas. Please Mr. Soong, believe me, something has happened to my son. Even if you find him only so that I can bury him” Her last words came out with difficulty as she was attempting to stymie the tears pouring out her eyes as she folded into herself, the agony shaking in her. “Please tell me that you’ll help me.”

Data remained quiet, his face the same as it was always, but Geordi though that perhaps he had seen something, a wince, and apprehension. As the silence lengthened, Geordi resolved to step forward. “Data is asking all of these questions not because he doesn’t believe you, Ms. Draganov, but because he needs as much information as you can provide.”

“Exactly,” responded Data, pulled from his stupor. “I will take this case, Ms. Draganov. I apologize for causing you anguish.”

He stood, waving Geordi over from behind him, “Geordi, please attain her information so that we may contact her with further information as we learn it. Ms. Draganov, I must attend to something upstairs. I’ll let Geordi assist you with what is remaining and have him show you out.”

With his instructions left, Data took his leave back up the stairs to his apartment.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sick a lot recently, so I will be slow updating, but I do plan to complete the whole of the tale.


End file.
